


rose and hawthorn, take no hold

by AgentStannerShipper



Category: Interview With the Vampire (1994)
Genre: Come Eating, Hand Jobs, Light Smut, M/M, POV First Person, but i do love the way louis speaks, mild references to a toxic relationship, reference to claudia, this is probably the most flowery thing ive ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: He would come to me sometimes, during our night. That is to say, he would come to me during the daylight hours, nudging back the lid of my coffin slowly, like a tease – like everything about Lestat was a tease – sequestered away from where the light might hit it, so he might slip in beside me in the small space.
Relationships: Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac
Comments: 7
Kudos: 146





	rose and hawthorn, take no hold

**Author's Note:**

> I will be honest: this is a spite-fic. As in, I wrote this solely out of spite. I watched Interview With a Vampire last night (I've never read the books, so excuse any mistakes. Hopefully they're not too OOC), and I just got so angry thinking about what Anne Rice did to fanfiction authors who loved her works. If you're reading this, you deserve better. It's strange that all happened well before I was in fandom, and yet even with AO3's protection I'm still nervous about posting this. It really speaks to the trauma she left on fandom. 
> 
> Anyway, this barely warrants the E rating (it's just slightly too explicit, I think, for an M). Have a tiny, smutty one-shot (and likely the only first-person fic I will ever write again). I hope you enjoy it.

He would come to me sometimes, during our night. That is to say, he would come to me during the daylight hours, nudging back the lid of my coffin slowly, like a tease – like everything about Lestat was a tease – sequestered away from where the light might hit it, so he might slip in beside me in the small space. It amused him to no end, the way he might introduce himself with my eyes still closed, his teeth sharp and nipping at my earlobe, his sharper smile pressed to the pale skin behind it, down the slope of my neck. “Expecting someone else?” he teased at times, but for all he loved our daughter – loved her, even though I could feel the tension between them, between us, grow by the day – he was never so pleased as when she’d left my coffin for her own, so he might return to his visits with me.

I could not say that they were unwelcome. I was not Lestat’s unwilling lover by any stretch, any more than I was his unwilling companion. Pretty words, maybe, for the unease that lay beneath them, but I truly believe I loved him. I truly believe I still do, whatever else there may be. His kisses, cold to the humans he plied with them as a prelude to the feast, were warm to me, and more often than not made me smile even in those moments before I opened my eyes. I would tilt my head back for him, allowing him to sweep back my hair from my throat, his golden locks brushing my cheek as he played at biting me, little nips all the way from my ear to my collar and back again, until I finally turned enough to capture his lips. He was not the yielding type in this, anymore than he was elsewhere. He fought me for it, just shy of breaking skin, his fingers going tight against my arm, nails pricking through the fabric. Maybe it was the French blood in him. He was, in all respects, passionate.

He did not complain when I drew the lid of my coffin back over the both of us. Two men of our size could scarcely fit, even pressed tight together, and I could feel every inch of him coiled against me as much as I could feel the wall of the coffin at my back, his lips still on mine even as his hands quested lower, pulling at my hips until we were as flush as we could be, our legs tangled so close together we might have been one being. There were times when he would take me, or allow me to play at taking him – as if he were ever not the one in control, between the two of us – laid out on some sumptuous bed, or some elegant sofa, taking our time, playing at love. But like this, as like the times we would push one another up against a wall or a tree, bloodheat in us and vicious as animals, like this we did not play, nor take our time. I could feel his hardness, and my own answered, at first the both of us rutting, Lestat half-snarling into our kisses, myself panting into his mouth, and then the friction would not be enough, and one of us would fumble down, fighting to open the flaps in our breeches, Lestat’s hands all too elegant in their efforts or mine seeming clumsy in comparison.

We would both sigh at the moment of exposure, the rush of air cool against heated skin – heated as dead flesh could ever get. We would press even closer together, if such a thing were possible, and Lestat would wrap those elegant hands around us, lengths rubbing against each other, heads catching, and the friction might have been uncomfortable if it wasn’t so sweet. It would be swift, rough and messy, and Lestat would make a game of it more nights than not, fighting to make me spill first, as if that were a capitulation on my part. I never resisted him, my nose pressed into his hair, his groans in my ear as he finished himself off after, and I would catch our spend in my cupped palm, drawing away enough to make eye contact with him as he looked down between us and took my wrist, meeting my eyes as he raised my hand to my lips, the same quirk to his smile as when he plied me with glasses of “wine.” This I did not refuse.

He liked to watch when I licked my hand clean, and then he would tuck us both away, his fingers so gentle on me I should have liked to call it loving. I still do not know if what he felt for me was love. It was need, yes, but those are not the same, and that is something I now know well. When I cupped his cheek and kissed him again, that final time, he would still not yield, but neither would he resist me, and the result would be tenderly chaste, before he pulled away. “Time to leave,” he would say, “lest the little darling catch me here.” Claudia still came to me when she woke. She knew of her fathers, of course, but it would hardly suit her to be here for this, even if she was only a child in looks. And my coffin certainly wouldn’t fit three, even if the third was very small.

In spite of his words, as slowly as he crept in, so too he would linger, watching me even as he pushed open the lid again, climbing out into the air, and I would half sit up to watch him too, until the lid of his own coffin had closed and he was lost from my view. Only then would I drag the lid back again, my thoughts still caught on the shine of his hair and the gleam of his eyes, the flash of his fangs when he smiled and the gentle pressure of his fingers on my wrist. I would stare up into the shallow darkness above my head, or turn onto my side and stare at the opposite wall, my back to where he would be laying. I was enamored, infatuated, even when I resented him, and I would wonder if he was still awake, still thinking of me too.


End file.
